CQC
by Herr Bob
Summary: My first fanfic on this site. I wrote this one shot before ever playing Snake Eater, and based it off of prerelease info and screens. It is quite short, but I hope you enjoy. Please R&R!


1.

The brick wall was old and decrepit, and threatened to give way with the slightest bit more pressure from the Soldier's back. The outpost, to which the wall belonged, was just as old and unkempt. It was at least sixty years old, and it had been at least ten since it last saw steady use, as was evident from the way in which it looked. There were bits and pieces of the walls everywhere; fallen amalgamations of brick and mortar which lay in uneven and scattered heaps where they had fallen. There was not a roof to be found, and given that it was almost surely made of wood, a material not known for its steadfastness in the face of time and weathering, it was not all that surprising that it had long ago caved in. It was indeed an unusual place. A painter might have enjoyed capturing the sad yet oddly beautiful scene on a canvas, but given the circumstances, not even the Soldier wanted to be there.

It was not a minute ago that he had first heard the rotors approaching from several miles away. It was at first faint, but in the deep quiet of the jungle the tiniest resonance is comparable to the mightiest sonic boom. The Soldier had been resting, a luxury he had not afforded himself in many days, near the small creek about a hundred meters away, which he could still hear rustling. Nature always amazed him. No matter how hellish a situation may be, no matter how irreparably man warps the quiet peace and serene beauty of the world with his weapons, nature still goes on. Nature is not like man. It doesn't know the burning fire of rage, or the searing sting of hate. It holds no grudges, no qualms; it certainly doesn't seek to eradicate itself and others as does man. Life still goes on, though for the Soldier that fact seemed in question.

He tore his concentration from the sounds of the creek to the impending danger bearing down upon him. He could hear the roaring _chop-chop-chop_ of the huge rotors, which almost definitely belonged to a Mil-Mi 24 Hind-D. No, two of them…at least. They were approaching from the Northwest, and couldn't be more than a minute away from his position. He hadn't been planning on engaging the enemy at all today…hell, he wasn't even planning on drawing his weapon today. The plan was to just carefully navigate down the creek, coming to the river after a few clicks. The river would eventually take him to the research facility, which is where the fun would really begin. Nowhere in this finely conceived equation were two Hind-D helos, bearing two squads of heavily armed GRU soldiers…all of which bearing down on him, with nothing but a .45 and a Ka-Bar. The soldiers wouldn't be too much of a problem, given that the helos departed after delivering their cargo. But if they remained, their 12.7 mm YaKB-12.7 Yakushev-Borzov multi-barrel machineguns would be, well…a little bit of a concern.

He quickly did a check of all that he had on him, which, when compared to the basic loadout of a single GRU soldier, wasn't a whole hell of a lot. His pack had been left at the creek, and along with it his CAR-15 assault rifle, which would have been invaluable given the circumstances. Unfortunately he didn't have the time to go and retrieve it, and he silently cursed himself for leaving it behind. He carried a single M1911A1 .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol, whose magazine held a mere seven rounds. A single _**A**vtomat **K**alashnikova 19**47**_, or AK-47, magazine held thirty 7.62 x 39 mm rounds.

On his web belt he had two stun grenades, essentially a metal canister filled with about 4.5 grams of a pyrotechnic metal-oxidant mix of magnesium and ammonium perchlorate which, upon detonation, emit a 1 million candle power flash of light and a deafening 180 decibel blast, which will blind and deafen anything within range for a good five seconds…long enough to make good work of them with a knife. He doubted he'd have the time to make good use of the grenades though, so he pushed them from his mind and focused all of his attention on the weapons in his right and left hands, his .45 and knife, respectively.

He was able to use the two in perfect harmony in a fighting technique known as Close Quarters Combat, or CQC, a method of close quarters fighting he himself helped to develop, along with a certain female mentor and compatriot of his long ago. The key was to use them both equally, favoring neither. If done properly, he could engage and neutralize any threat from close to medium-long range. Perfect for the situation he was in: close and cramped. It would have to be done quick and quiet, so as to not allow the GRU soldiers any time to organize and retaliate. While CQC was developed specifically for situations like this, it would be one hell of a challenge given the location, as he would have to maneuver around and between extremely cramped brick walls, on top of that was the fact that CQC wasn't meant to take on a large number, and when you're alone, surrounded, outnumbered and outgunned, twelve is a very large number. He would have to be quick…

The two helicopters soon appeared over the treetops and lumbered on towards the old outpost where the Soldier waited, carrying their payload of death along with them. They arrived at the spot, and luckily they stopped about thirty yards before the brick complex, and hovered there for about ten seconds. The Soldier watched all of this unfold, peeking out around the corner of the small section of wall behind which he was taking refuge. He watched as the heavy armored doors of the helos were forced open. They were parallel to each other and turned broadside so that he could only see into the one. Inside were the expected six GRU soldiers who were gearing up, checking rifles and donning their heavy packs. Heavy packs? Assault teams never traveled that heavy, so these must be LRRPs (**L**ong **R**ange **R**econnaisance **P**atrol**s**). That was good news, because that meant he hadn't been sighted after all, and that these guys were probably just running recon, or setting up an FO in the abandoned, decrepit maze that was the brick complex.

The soldiers threw down thick, heavy ropes and prepared to descend to the ground. The Soldier watched them mount the ropes and repel to the ground, two at a time, one out of each side. As the last one hit the ground a crew chief detached the ropes, after which the lumbering bird promptly flew off, another good thing; he wouldn't have to worry about those guns after all. Out of the second descended not men, but a rather large pallate of crates and bags, packs and ammo canisters. Apparently the soldiers had intended not only to recon the place, but also to set up camp here. That wasn't too much of a concern. Besides, both helos were gone and the Soldier had only six unsuspecting men to deal with. He allowed himself a rare smirk and quickly withdrew his head from around the corner of the wall, seeing as how the squad was now advancing, quite nonchalanty, towards the structure.

As a part of their standard operating procedure the group fanned out and prepared to search the structure. Their rifles were held low, pointing at the ground, and altogether not revealing of an apprehensive nature. The Soldier heard who he assumed was the leader bark something in Russian, a language which the Soldier spoke fluently but was too far away to make out what he was saying, though he could only guess it was an order to be alert. The men entered the structure and began poking around, though they weren't paying much attention to what they were doing. Within a minute or two the first soldier approached the wall behind which stood the hidden warrior.

2.

Aleksai Kaninskavich never really got used to fast roping out of a helo, despite the fact that he had done it a dozen times since becoming a member of GRU. Something about the rapid descent left him extremely uneasy on his feet, and it must have shown, because Rikovich, his squad leader, yelled for him to suck it up and walk like a man, "…not some fuckin' alley-whore," as he so eloquently put it. He had hit the ground harder than usual this time around, most likely because the unstressful circumstances eased his nerves, relaxing his grip on the thick, heavy rope. The numbness in his legs didn't overly concern him, as he knew his uneasiness would lessen when he found the time to enjoy one of his precious few home-rolled cigarettes. Once he hit the ground he immediately swung his rifle out in front of him, bringing it up to his line-of-sight and scanning the area for any movement. Looking for movement…this was the jungle, looking for movement in the jungle is like looking for fish in the sea, its everywhere. He thought it was odd that even this deep into friendly, home territory they needed to act as though at war. He had thought over the last week that something wasn't quite right, that underneath all of the propaganda and political bullshit they actually had a mission to do out here, other than run a practice recon on some old outpost.

But he kept his mouth shut, as always, seeing as how nowadays asking questions got you killed. He heard stories about stuff like that happening. The other day his buddy told him about a loudmouth corporal who questioned the communist ideals. His sergeant subsequently asked him to accompany him to talk, and led him off to somewhere out of sight. The men of his squad heard a shot, and a few seconds later the sergeant emerged, holstering his Malakov and wiping blood splatter from his shiny gold buttons. It was quite a situation. The only man he trusted his musings with was Yuri, his only friend in this godawful army.

After the last man hit the ground they all formed a circle, watching for movement. The second transport bird dropped the cargo palate, which had enough supplies to last a week or more, and after they cut the lines and signaled the all clear, the big lumbering bird flew off with its companion, back to the base and fresh food and real toilets. They began to move towards the outpost without the slightest hint of enthusiasm. Three years ago, when Aleksai first joined the GRU, he would have loved to go on a mock recon like this, in fact, he would have been among the first to volunteer.

Back then he believed all of the posters and flyers, about standing up to the oppressors in the West, who sought to control the world and force their capitalist beliefs on everyone else. He believed that garbage that his Uncle told him about standing up to the West, defending the Motherland and the communist ideals. Now he saw it all for what it was: complete bullshit. He didn't think Americans were any worse than the slimeballs in the Kremlin, but he never spoke of these thoughts. He played along, "Comrade" this and "Motherland" that, but deep down, he just wanted to go home and work the farm with his brother. He wondered if that would ever happen. The way of the world was anything but pleasant. But, despite his hatred of the bureaucrats in Moscow, even he had to admit that if it came to nuclear war with the West, he was glad to be in the East. The Soviet military was massive, and its nuclear arsenal equally vast. That was the one thing he did believe on the posters, because he saw it every day. He truly believed that the Soviet Army was unstoppable. He allowed himself a small smile at this thought as he split away from the rest of the group to start his search of the area.

He wandered off to the right and stepped over what had once been a solid wall, but which now was low enough to serve as a makeshift step. He stopped in the room he now occupied and looked around, taking it all in. In the corner stood a small stove, from which no heat had emanated in many years. He wondered of what use a stove could serve in the jungle, but figured it must have been used solely for cooking food. He turned around and exited the room through a hole in the North wall, which led to a mazelike area of crumbling brick walls, which he figured must have at one time been a network of hallways. He navigated his way along the path, heading towards the end where a lone section of wall now stood. It looked to old to withstand much force, and he immediately recalled his childhood, when he and his brother would run through the woods, kicking over rotted trees trunks, which in their minds were all enemy soldiers.

He walked up and prepared to kick over the pathetic excuse for a wall when he stopped, swearing he heard a slight _snap_, as if someone had stepped on a twig. He looked all around, but the nearest comrade was a good forty feet away, and he didn't dare make a big deal over this, facing ridicule if it turned out to be nothing. He figured that, given the locations of his compatriots, that the sound did in fact emanate from the wall he had been heading towards, and which stood a mere fifteen feet to his front. He brought up his rifle and held it hard into his shoulder. His finger tightened its grip on the trigger and prepared to call the weapon into action for the first time. He slowly stepped toward the wall, making sure to tread as softly as he could. He reached the wall, slowly walked to the left side, and whipped around the corner to find…nothing. He let out a sigh of relief and chalked it up to his upset nerves following the drop. He let his rifle barrel fall to his side as he reached into his pocket and grabbed for a smoke. He brought the cig up to his trembling lips and reached for his lighter. He never saw it coming.

3.

The Soldier listened intently as the GRU approached his hiding place; all the while tightening his grip on his .45 and Ka-Bar, ready to strike as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Had the squad not decided to set up camp in his area of the jungle he would have just observed them from afar and let them pass through. He hated killing anyway, especially at such close quarters. The quickest way to down a man is to either slash his throat, cutting the artery and causing him to bleed out in less than a minute and rendering him incapable of uttering any noise other than a low gurgle, or to stab him through the heart, puncturing the right ventricle and causing instant, noiseless death. Both, however, were rather messy, and the Soldier hated to be in the wrong spot and get soaked in arterial spray.

The head was always out of the question. For one, if you stab at the wrong spot you risk having the blade deflected off of the skull, which isn't good at all. You have to puncture just the right spot, just below the skull and slightly above the spine, to instantly end your target's existence here on Earth. It was only good if you could sneak up on the target, and in no way is the head a target to aim for in CQC, least of all with a knife. Of course, the heavy slug of the .45 could drop a man no matter where he's hit, what with the sheer amount of force the brute of a pistol exerts, but the automatic was way too noisy for a stealthy kill, which is what he needed right now. He shifted his weight to his left foot, in an attempt alleviate the pressure on the wall, and in so doing cracked a twig.

The sound was small, but it was enough to be heard, especially by the Soviet, who the Soldier could hear moving slowly towards him. He tightened his grip on the knife, ready to thrust the second he could. The GRU was now right on top of him, and he could be heard moving around to the left side of the wall. The Soldier did the opposite, moving around to his left, and thus was able to find himself looking at the back of the GRU soldier, who made a lightning fast spin around the wall. The Soldier slowly moved around the wall, and came again upon the GRU's back just as he was lighting a cigarette. It was time to strike.

The Soldier, in one blindingly fast movement, wrapped his left, knife bearing arm around the neck of the GRU, and with the other spun him around so that his back was to the wall, with his new-found captive in front of him. He brought his right hand up and pressed the cold .45 barrel up to the GRU's temple, but it was pointless because with his left hand he thrust the knife into the man's throat, then tore to the left, tearing a deep gash in his neck, spewing blood a good ten feet. The man at first wriggled, but soon fell limp to the ground. It was all over in a split second, and the Soldier quickly darted fifteen feet to his left, where anther GRU had come to investigate the noise he had heard. He rounded the corner and saw, on the ground, the lifeless form of his comrade, but before he could yell a figure appeared in front of him and quickly took hold of him by the neck. He could feel the powerful arms squeeze his neck tight, like a boa constrictor suffocates his prey, and with a quick snap by the Soldier's arms he felt no more. The Soldier moved quickly, quietly, instinctively, almost snakelike as he rapidly approached his next target, who was alarmingly close to one of his comrades. The two were standing next to each other; just close enough to be both within reach. The Soldier came up behind them, and put an arm around each. The knife in his left hand did its job on the man on the left, and the pistol in his right hand, which had been pressed to the back of the man's neck, bucked once, killing the hapless victim and causing alarm to surface in the two remaining soldiers who were a good thirty feet away.

The Soldier moved with great speed, the prospect of a stealth kill going all to hell with that gunshot, and reached the closest soldier following a roll on the ground, which covered the last ten feet in a hot second. The Soldier sprang up, spun the GRU around and wrapped his left arm around his neck, pressing the knife to his throat. His comrade, who stood five feet away with his rifle pointing at the pair, was too stunned to act. Before him was a man, clad in Tigerstripe camo fatigues and facepaint, holding his sergeant hostage with a knife to his throat. He didn't dare attempt to fire his weapon, for fear that his jittery hands would cause him to gun down his own commander. But it didn't matter anyway, because the Soldier brought up his right hand, which could be seen holding a big .45 automatic, a decidedly _American_ weapon. Apparently there was a purpose to this excursion after all, like Aleksai had thought all along, though he would never know it, and given the speed and deadly efficacy of the Soldier before him, he figured Aleksai had already suffered a similar fate. The last thing he saw was a bright flash from the end of the automatic, and then darkness.

The Sergeant was a tough one to hold on to. He was a big guy, a good 6'4 at least and around two-thirty, but the Soldier could manage. He brought the pistol up to the man's head just as he heard him utter a question, in jumbled, frantic Russian,

"Who are you?" The Soldier pondered this question for a moment before deciding there was no reason not to. He put his mouth close to the sergeant's ear and whispered, in flawless Russian,

"The Wicked Snake of the West."

And out of the silence of the forest echoed one more gunshot, and a silent snake, with his prey left laying where they fell, crept back into the darkness of the jungle.


End file.
